


Learned Lessons

by dedougal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:37:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knows Derek is watching him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learned Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> For larantula's birthday

Stiles knows Derek is watching him. It’s not like he’d got that spooky scary bond thing that Scott has got going on, all wolfy and dangerous and all. But there’s just this prickle at the back of his neck, this awareness. He should be finishing his homework. There are papers that he should research and questions that need answering sitting just there, right in front of him. 

Suddenly it seems more important to press the pen against his bottom lip, suck it in and out, purse his lips around it. Pretend to be concentrating hard on the book in front of him. Let it slip in, out, in, out, in-

There’s a hand on his shoulder all of a sudden. He didn’t sense Derek moving, which should scare him, but instead makes his heart race. A wet lick up his neck should be gross but it – oh god – it feels like Derek’s drawing his tongue up his, yes, interested dick. Stiles shifts as his jeans tighten a little too much and he needs that friction just right…

Derek’s hands clamp down on his thighs. It reassures Stiles to know that Derek has learned the difference between so tight it hurts and tight enough to hold him still and send a sharp punch of lust through him. There’s this whole world of kinks that Stiles hadn’t expected himself to get off on before Derek and he started this thing. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Not this. Not the way Derek draws his tongue up Stiles’ neck, nipping at his ear gently before whispering, “Drop the pen and put your hands on the desk.”

Stiles should be embarrassed by how quickly he obeys. There are a lot of shoulds here. He should do something about that. Instead he waits, trembling, for Derek’s next instruction. Derek doesn’t seem interested in giving one, not yet. Instead he sucks a mark low on Stiles’ neck. It’s hard to keep still for that and Stiles is suddenly grateful for the hands on his thighs, pressing down, thumbs stroking small circles closer and closer to his dick.

Derek didn’t say anything about being quiet. “Oh, c’mon, yeah. Do it. C’mon.”

There’s a noise that’s half a growl and half a laugh. “I know how to make you shut up,” Derek says, almost a threat.

Stiles twists his head around to look at him, finally, and is unsurprised with the kiss that seals his words inside his head again. But it’s only when Derek finally moves his hand to grab at Stiles’ dick that words fail him altogether. Derek’s hand is warm, even though the denim, and it makes him buck hard. Derek breaks the kiss. “Stand up.” He never waste words. Stiles has learned not to waste time. The chair clatters to the floor as he stands.

There’s a long moment. Stiles waits, knowing that instructions are coming. But instead Derek pulls his bottom lip down with his broad thumb. Stiles is almost – almost – tempted to nip at him, bite down. Maybe he’d catch Derek, maybe not. It might be fun to try. But instead he lets Derek brush the rough pad of his thumb across his lip. Now, Stiles knows that a breeze from the wrong direction can get his dick perking up and saying hello but this deliberate, slow, insatiable tease makes him harder than he thought possible. 

“Anyone home?” Derek asks, voice low. Stiles wants – desperately – to be sarcastic. To point out that even if his dad was home, Derek would be able to sniff him out. Instead he limits himself to a small shake of his head, not enough to dislodge the thumb. “Good boy.” Derek replaces the thumb with his lips, pressing himself against Stiles, hard. It is so damn fucking good.

It only gets better. Derek strips off his own t-shirt before pulling off Stiles’ (awesome vintage) tee. Bare skin is definitely superior to cloth. The kisses become filthier too, tongue and a mash of lips as opposed to the careful, defined nips from earlier. Stiles’ pants are shoved to the floor and, regrettably, Derek steps back to let him kick them free. 

So it’s awkward standing there naked while the man you are definitely not dating but you’re no longer seeing even the barest hint of the girl who used to be your significant other and who doesn’t, you know, sleep with anyone else. Or look at you like they don’t quite know what to do to you first either. Derek’s eyes are dark. It’s different from when he’s all tooth and claw and furry, but there’s a hint of that wildness and that power. Derek slowly – too slowly – opens each button of his jeans and then he just leaves them, hanging there on his hips. Again, telekinesis or the force or whatever doesn’t work as Stiles urges the pants to drop. He can tell Derek isn’t wearing any underwear again.

Then, again, his brain goes offline as Derek kisses the thoughts out of him. And again. And fuck that’s hot, the press of Derek’s rough jeans against his bare skin and if he tilts his hips just right he should get the right amount of pressure. A hand at the back of his neck holds him in place and Derek just looks at him, stern and forbidding. And his dick twitches.

“Hands on the desk, Stilinski. Keep them there.” That- Now that means turning his back on Derek. Stiles waits a moment too long and Derek puts his hands to his pants and starts pulling them up again. That is just wrong. Stiles spins around and plants his hands wide and his feet wider. He knows what he looks like here, slutty and begging, and appearances are not deceiving here. Derek shifts behind him and then a slick finger presses at his ass. Yeah. Slutty, begging and oh so fucking eager.

Derek knows how to drive Stiles right to the edge and when to pull back and let him recover. His fingers are long and blunt and, yeah, not enough. “Fuck me, c’mon. Fuck.” It’s maybe not his usual eloquence but Stiles could care less. Derek finally seems to be listening and his fingers are replaced by the head of his cock. That’s more like it.

The burn is exquisite. It’s like this knife edge between oh god too much and fuck me not enough. Derek doesn’t thrust shallowly or rock back and forward. Instead he is implacable, a slow deliberate glide that leaves Stiles nowhere to go. He just has to take it. And take it he does until Derek is pressed right up inside him, his opened jeans chafing against Stiles’ bare ass. It’s enough to make him come right then and there, almost. “Move. Please, Derek. Please.”

And no matter what Derek should do, in the end, he can’t help giving Stiles what he wants, thrusting hard and fast and deep until they both seize up, shouting into the otherwise empty house and kissing each other breathlessly until their heartbeats return to near normal.

It’s almost enough to make Stiles want to be obedient more of the time…


End file.
